The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘You said that. What is it?’

  He holds up his hand in a stop gesture and I obligingly shut up.

  ‘There were other attacks, right? One in the garden opposite Molly’s house? And others?’

  I nod, wondering where he’s going. We’ve been over this.

  ‘And no investigation that we know of after Adam Graham was let off? And no outcry from the press? And all the files have vanished?’

  He’s clearly on a roll with the rhetorical questions, so I just wait it out.

  ‘It’s a fucking cover-up!’

  I open my mouth to speak but get the hand again.

  ‘Maybe Adam Graham killed her on someone’s orders, or the killer was someone else and Graham was the convenient fall guy. Either way, if Graham was in on it, that would explain why he was so cool through the whole thing, especially if he was being paid. I wonder if they’d have let him swing for Molly’s murder if the chips had fallen that way?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Don’t forget, this was 1930 when Thomas Blamey was chief of Police. His whole term of office was tainted by allegations of corruption and misbehaviour, both by him and by the police force in general.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yeah. There was an enquiry. Allegations the police were trafficking cocaine, running an insurance scam, taking bribes … Blamey had to resign a few years later when a Royal Commission found he’d covered up the truth about a shooting in Royal Park.’

  I stare at John. ‘Blamey was the one who said a reward for information about Molly’s murder was unnecessary.’

  ‘See? And all those other crimes were used as a distraction.’ He pauses to dramatically slap the back of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘And Adam Graham was being manipulated – whether he actually killed Molly or not – by someone important with the power or money to first misdirect and then shut down the investigation. Connections high up in the police force.’

  I’m still staring at John and have no idea what to say. Somehow he’s rolled at least four possible scenarios into one giant conspiracy theory starring Adam Graham working with a malevolent Mr X, who may even be a senior police officer. It sounds completely ludicrous and yet it makes a weird kind of sense. John is looking at me expectantly.

  ‘You really are Mulder.’

  1930

  It was the end of another school day and after checking to see that the ink monitor had done his job, Molly decided to stay back and catch up on some of her marking and administrative work. The headmaster, always an intimidating figure in his starched collars and flapping black robe, had spoken with her earlier in the day. It seemed Molly’s recent distraction had not gone unnoticed and although it wasn’t an official reprimand, she had been told – in no uncertain terms – things had better improve quickly or there would be consequences. Seeing the look on Molly’s face, the headmaster had softened.

  ‘Miss Dean. Up until the last month or so, your work has been exemplary. The children like you and more importantly they all seem to be progressing well, regardless of the challenges they face. You have the potential for advancement and a satisfying career in the field of education. Indeed, prior to this recent lapse, I had put your name forward to the Education Board for promotion. Please don’t give me cause to regret that decision.’

  Molly had made all the right appeasing sounds, expressing dismay that she had allowed her work to suffer and promising a return to her previous standards. But all the time she was acutely aware she had lost heart. Through college, and the first two years of teaching at the Queensberry Street School, Molly had convinced herself she was content, that making a difference in the lives of these children was enough. But in recent weeks her thoughts had been turning more and more to a career as a writer. Dabbling in her spare time was no longer enough and Molly knew she had to make a decision: put writing to one side and concentrate on being a good teacher, or give up teaching and the security of a regular wage to chase her dream. Every time she thought about leaving the classroom for good it made her feel a bit sick, but it wasn’t as though she had nothing waiting for her outside. Molly had sent proposals for articles to a number of Australian publications and so far one of those had already borne fruit. Together with her poem and a handful of other published pieces, it felt like a good start.

  The hush of her classroom at four o’clock was in sharp contrast to the constant hum and murmur of children trying to be quiet for hours on end, and she found the deep silence almost more intrusive. While she did not have a large number of students, their challenges and special learning requirements meant that during school hours the room was seldom quiet, and Molly was never still. But now afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall Gothic windows, and as Molly watched chalk dust drift in its warm rays she acknowledged that this room, at this time of day, was one of the few moments she could claim as her own, undisturbed and uninterrupted.

  After an hour of correcting spelling and writing reports, Molly locked the schoolwork in the desk and reached down into her satchel, pulling out her notebook. There was still time for writing, a good half hour before the custodian would come through to lock up, and Molly had plenty to do. She flipped through the first dozen pages of the notebook, past ideas and musings, poems half penned and snatches of prose. Then a few blank pages, a pause before the opening chapter of her yet-to-be-named novel announced itself with a flourish of ink. She stopped to read a couple of phrases, then moved on. Suddenly impatient, she picked the book up by its spine and held it over the desk, fanning the pages and shaking it at the same time. Molly was rewarded when a single sheet detached itself and fluttered free, sliding onto the desktop as though it had meant to be there all along. She put the notebook aside and ran her hand across the letter, smoothing invisible creases, her fingers lingering on the embossed Table Talk letterhead. The letter had only arrived a few days before, and she could still hardly believe they had not only liked her work, but were willing to at least consider taking her on as a freelance columnist.

  ‘We await your submission.’ She read the sentence out loud and frowned. ‘Who can I write about?’

  Molly sat back in her chair and absently brought her thumb to her mouth, chewing the already short nail. Writing for Table Talk meant a society piece: gossipy descriptions of parties or concerts, or a profile of one of Melbourne’s beautiful people, be they actress, singer, playboy or simply someone wealthy and enviable. She knew it would be easy to write about Colin or one of the other artists in their group, like John Farmer, but she wanted more of a challenge. The women artists she knew led lives too quiet to be of interest to the public and, besides, she wanted to make a splash. Molly needed a name, a big name. A person everyone would want to read about.

  Absently, she scanned the walls of the classroom, but there was no inspiration to be had in a portrait of the King or a map of the British Empire.

  She pulled her notebook in front of her and flipped to a blank page where she started a list of names, a who’s who of Melbourne. She left a couple of lines empty in case any interstate – or even international – theatrical or musical types flitted into town to indulge in the social whirl of Melbourne Cup week. Not one name leapt out at her. Molly sat in the gathering gloom, tapping a pencil against her lower lip. ‘There must be someone.’

  Suddenly she sat up straight with a gasp of realisation, the pencil falling to the floor with a clatter. He had been right in front of her the whole time. A local boy made good, someone who had made the transition from humble beginnings to the rarefied atmosphere of Toorak and the mansions of St Kilda Road. He’d always been loath to reveal much about his private life, and his attendance at society events was sporadic and always cause for sensation. The upper classes were suspicious of his bona fides, the man on the street wanted to know the secrets of his success, and women just wanted to know if he was available. Donald Raeburn’s story would pull re
aders in like moths to a flame – he was perfect.

  Molly slapped her palms down on the desk and pushed her chair back hard, causing it to scrape loudly across the wooden teaching platform. All she had to do now was track the man down and persuade him to talk to her.

  #xa0;

  Once Molly had decided Donald Raeburn was her target, she felt it best to begin with some background research. She started in the Public Library, checking the latest Sands and McDougall Directory.

  ‘How much does this book weigh?’ Molly muttered to herself as she hefted it to a reading desk. It looked impressive with its red binding and gilt text, and she turned to the last page to check exactly how long it was. ‘Nearly 3000 pages, good heavens.’

  A studious-looking young man at the next table gave her a sharp glance and Molly quickly sat down and bent her head over the book. Starting with the A to Z listings, it didn’t take her long to find Raeburn, D, but there was no occupation listed next to his name. She had been hoping for something descriptive, but it seemed listing a profession was beneath those with large amounts of money. The only detail that suggested D Raeburn was perhaps a cut above the average citizen was the fact the entry also included a telephone number, which Molly noted. The listing naturally gave an address, so Molly turned to the street directory and then the maps, confirming her own impressions about the topography of the city’s premier suburbs. It would be an easy trip from Elwood to Raeburn’s St Kilda Road residence.

  Sands and McDougall had no more useful information to impart, so she thumped the book down on the returns shelf and threaded her way through to the periodicals. Molly decided The Home magazine was unlikely to yield any information as it was published in Sydney, and instead started with the social pages of Table Talk. Given it was only printed as a weekly, she thought it would be relatively quick to skim through looking for any mention of Raeburn. She wasn’t sure how to tackle the daily newspapers. Raeburn would certainly appear in their society pages, but she’d also need to try to find out anything she could about his business dealings. It was a frustratingly slow process and Molly had to frequently pull her attention back from digressions into unrelated articles or serialised stories that caught her eye as she flicked through the pages. Telling herself a journalist was nothing without diligent research, she stuck at it, reading and making notes, and only emerged with a jolt from the accumulated pile of newsprint when the librarian announced, ‘Closing in ten minutes!’

  Dutifully, she stacked the papers at the end of the table and made her way from the reading room, joining the shuffling parade of fellow readers and researchers as they made their way through the foyer and down the front steps to Swanston Street. Molly decided a good walk would clear her head, so rather than catching a tram she struck out toward Flinders Street Station, stepping out at a fair clip but soon finding her pace reduced to the start-stop of a crowded footpath. She set her gaze on the gabardine-clad shoulders in front of her, adjusted her stride to match their owner, and puzzled over Donald Raeburn. It didn’t take her long to sift through what she had learned; details of the life of Donald Raeburn were even more scant than she had realised. He seemed to frequent the races but not the hunt, his name appeared in the same sentences as those of some of the city’s most powerful people, but he had not yet been invited to join their ranks at the Melbourne Club. Donald Raeburn also attended a selection of parties and openings, but did not seem to do so with one particular woman.

  As Molly veered down Collins Street and made her way through the arcades and lanes that would take her to Flinders Street, she realised just how well she had chosen her subject, provided she could pull together an article. Should she phone and make an appointment, or just present herself on the doorstep and request an audience; perhaps try to attend an event and simply introduce herself to Raeburn? Various ideas and scenarios occurred to her as she ducked through a sudden gap in the press of people and dived down Degraves Street. The surge of the crowd carried her past the barber and the tobacconist, each person in the throng convinced the distorted echo of squealing brakes and train horns must signal the imminent departure of their service. Molly clattered down the ramp to her platform to find the train just pulling in, and she moved a short distance along before shouldering her way into a carriage. She found a strap to cling to and swayed lightly as the train jolted across the Sandridge Bridge and away. The one thing she knew for certain was this was her chance to start making a name for herself as a writer. Molly Dean wanted all of Melbourne – Australia – to know who she was. Donald Raeburn was only the beginning.

  1999

  I leave John to his Dutch painting and head off to East Melbourne. I have an appointment at eleven to catalogue and value a private collection, which I’m hoping the owners may want to sell. The traffic down Punt Road is not too bad for mid-morning, but the slow speed still gives me plenty of time to think about Molly Dean and John’s theory. It would explain a lot of things, especially the dropping of all charges against Adam Graham. But I’m not sure about John’s idea that the murders of Mena Griffiths and Hazel Wilson were used as a distraction, masking the real story behind Molly’s death. The next time cars in front of me grind to a halt, I grab my voice recorder from the passenger seat. The traffic immediately starts to move and it’s a moment before we stop again and I press record.

  ‘If Adam Graham isn’t guilty, did the killer target Molly specifically or was it just a random thing? Is Molly’s murder related to the other attacks in the area and why did those attacks stop not long after Molly’s death? Check similarities between Molly, Mena and Hazel’s deaths. Was Mena and/or Hazel’s killer identified? Who knew Molly was going to the theatre that night? Why didn’t Detective Lambell keep pursuing Adam Graham after the initial trial was abandoned?’

  I drop the recorder again so I can make the turn into Hotham Street. I pass the Johnston Collection, a lovely little house museum, and pull up in front of my client’s home, a Gothic Revival fully restored to show off the beauty of its bluestone and the whimsy of the gingerbread trim. I put all thoughts of Molly out of my head as I grab my phone, camera, measuring tape and laptop, and lock the car. The client, or at least one half of the client couple, meets me at the door.

  ‘I saw you pull up. Here. You’d better put this on your dash; the inspectors are like vampires around here.’ He hands me a residential parking permit and I see a flash of French cuff and delicate double cufflinks. Good taste which hopefully extends to the art collection.

  ‘Thank you. I won’t be a moment.’ I hurry back to the car and place the permit prominently on the passenger side of the dashboard before turning back to the house. ‘Hello?’ The guy has disappeared so I step through the open door and close it behind me. I hear a skittering of paws and claws on marble and a whippet slaloms round the far corner of the hall and heads toward me.

  ‘Jade, sweetie! Sorry hope you don’t mind dogs!’ My host is hot on the dog’s heels, but by the time he appears, she’s already jumping all over me.

  ‘Love dogs, especially a divine hound like Miss Jade.’ I crouch down to give her a proper pat, running my hands over her lean white and tan flanks. She squirms with delight.

  ‘Oh well, if Jade likes you, you’ve passed all the necessary character tests! Geoffrey told me I should ask you some questions before I let you loose on the art, but I said, she already comes highly recommended and it would be a little gauche to wait until she’s in the house, then start calling her qualifications into question. And now that you’ve got the paw of approval, I don’t have to.’ He pauses to take a breath. ‘But listen to me rabbiting on! I’m Tony, which I’m sure you’ve guessed and Geoffrey will probably be back from his appointment in an hour or so.’ He taps his forehead meaningfully. ‘Collagen injections.’

  ‘Great. Alex Clayton.’ I straighten up and belatedly remember to stick out my hand. ‘Pleasure to meet you both.’ Jade is coiling around my legs. ‘Would you like to g
ive me a tour of your collection first? Then I can get started with the cataloguing.’

  After taking me through the entire house pointing out paintings and keeping up a running commentary on the decor overall, Tony leads me back to the entrance hall and leaves me to my own devices. Jade hesitates for a moment over whether to follow him and decides to stick with me for the moment. I imagine she’s attracted to the promise of a quiet few hours.

  I get to work photographing each painting, taking measurements and noting the details down in a spreadsheet I’ve customised for this sort of work. I have to look at the back of the paintings as well, in case there are any notes or labels giving additional information, so it’s a slow job to do an entire collection like this. Happily for me, Tony and Geoffrey have wonderful art and the time passes quickly as I work my way through the rooms on the ground floor.

  At some point I hear the front door open and close and a moment later a man walks into the dining room where I’m currently running my tape measure over a very nice little Nora Heysen floral still life.

  ‘Hello, I’m Geoffrey. Shan’t disturb, just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Alex.’ I have to make a conscious effort to look him in the eye and not stare at his forehead. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he disappears and I get back to work and finish up with the Heysen. This is the last of the ground floor art, so I head upstairs to start working through the rooms Tony showed me. The banister is one of the most fantastic things I’ve ever seen and, now I’m alone, I take my time to look at it properly and run my hand across its surface as I slowly ascend. The newel post at the lowest stair is shaped like the head of a fantastical dragon, mouth agape, each tooth and scale carved to perfection from richly hued mahogany. Some detail on the top of his skull has been lost under generations of caressing hands, but that only enhances the patina. Intricate newel posts are not uncommon, but what makes this special is the fact that it’s not just about the post. Instead the handrail extending out from the dragon’s head forms his body. The entire rail is carved with scales and it undulates like a writhing serpent, while at the very top, a pointed tail lashes the air. It’s glorious, Gothic and probably far older than the house it currently inhabits.